


the moment between fire and flame

by TenebrisKukris



Series: TMA x EC AU [2]
Category: Evillious Chronicles, Vocaloid
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Metaphors, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:53:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27476842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TenebrisKukris/pseuds/TenebrisKukris
Summary: “And here, he thinks – he knows, at the precipice of all he has ever known and ever loved, of being complicit in a thousand different sufferings, he bends the knee.”orin which a god and her messiah consummate their bond.allen/riliane. twincest.
Relationships: Riliane Lucifen d'Autriche/Allen Avadonia
Series: TMA x EC AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1804156
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6
Collections: Union Server of Evillious 24 hour ficjam





	the moment between fire and flame

**Author's Note:**

> normally i wouldn't make a fic for these two unless i had everything planned out perfectly but c'mon, the prompt this month was kneel, and i couldn't help myself and whoops it turned explicit
> 
> this takes place in that nebulous space before salva in my very much dusty TMA x EC AU but i was thinking of rewriting salva anw after tma was finished so we'll see how that goes tho this'll probably won't be canon as soon as i start digging into it but who knows!
> 
> y'all that have no idea what im talking about i angled it so that even without knowledge on tma it's still readable(and understandable) without prior knowledge - just let the flame metaphors flow through you

She calls for him betwixt twilight and dusk.

It has always been like this – her temperament aside, there was no one else capable of dealing with her more esoteric needs. Nor would there be anyone else she trusted as implicitly as he.

For it is he who has not kneeled to the Lucifenian throne, nor to its vast and endless military might. Out of all of her ministers, her tools and pawns and trinkets gallivanting around the country, their loyalties are to the crown, to the princess and to the image she possesses that burns through their minds like a forest fire.

But he would only bow to _her_. Not to the title that Riliane wears like a second skin of wax and candlelight – a deception – or to the thrumming power in her veins that strikes and burns at the very seams of her edges, burning brightly at all who would seem to look at her. That all who would look upon her know despair charred through their very bones.

He knocks on the door four times in quick succession – _the play must be perfect to the end_ – he remembers her saying, once, twice, a lifetime ago. They’ve fitted so perfectly into their roles, haven’t they, he muses, the perfect picture of a princess and her most trusted aide.

He enters the threshold. She is there again, staring at the window and the view of the city below. The lights flicker like fireflies from this height, the scope of the city and kingdom spanning much longer than what her eyes can see. He can tell she’s looking beyond that – her eyes gazing off into the distance looking at a point farther than he can see.

She doesn’t react to his presence, not now, not yet.

“Disrobe me,” she says softly, and even after eighteen years of living it sounds odd to not hear her command with such confidence. He obliges.

Her dress is a monstrosity of lace and satin that took the tailors long to make and even longer to perfect. Riliane’s wardrobe has to be the most posh and pretentious thing about her. He’s thankful that getting her out of it isn’t half as difficult as making it.

He unties what he can at first – her choker, the lace around her waist as well as the other accessories bound to her – and then her gloves. He handles them carefully off her skin, careful not to touch her, as if he was afraid she would shatter. And then he unties her hair, letting the golden locks flow freely as he takes off his own hair tie to match her.

He unzips the dress next, his hands ghosting against the fabric and satin as they cascade down to the floor, leaving her almost naked in the darkening light of dusk. He does not linger as he unclasps her bra with precision and slides her panties down with hardly a touch.

Allen stands straight to face her as she turns to meet his gaze. Even as naked as the day she was born she still exudes the kind of respect and confidence that most men take years to perfect. Riliane, for her part, seems unconcerned about her state of undress and simply stares him down, a small smile on her face.

And it is here that he lingers for but a moment, in the shadow of dusk and destiny hanging above them with utter surety, he cannot help but lament what could have been.

“Come,” she says, as she steps over the pile of clothes and into the bath. He follows, turning on the faucet as Riliane steps into the bathtub, legs crossed against her chest as she waits for the water to fill. The water sizzles just a bit against her bare skin before it flows steady against the porcelain of the tub.

He stops the water before it overflows as he prepares to wash her hair. His hands are steady as he spreads his fingers through her locks, pulling and twisting just enough to be both pleasurable and to actually get any dirt and grime out of her hair.

It is not a quick task, and yet when twilight fades from out of the single window and the he can see the stars glimmer outside he knows it is time. Riliane stands, walking into the center of the room, hot water dripping from her skin onto the floor.

“Dry me,” she says, her arms spread out as he very carefully takes the towels and dries what little surface area is still wet. It isn’t much at all; any remaining water that isn’t on the floor and left on her body has a tendency to evaporate on contact with her bare skin.

She steps into the huge bedroom, the moonlight illuminating the room with a soft glow in the harsh darkness. She faces him then, eyes glowing brightly with indescribable urge.

There is no malice in her gaze. Not like so many instances before it where her anger and rage boiled over to the surface like the fury of fire, of passion and action and death implicit in everything that she usually immersed herself in.

None of the sister he remembers, and all of the avatar and vessel that is to come.

And yet here she is, in one fleeting, transient moment, eyes burning as brightly as the dawn in front of you, the epitome of contradictions and paradoxes that seem to whisper over her steps, her very being.

_A god wreathed in human skin_ , a voice whispers. _A human bearing the sign of the divine_ , another mumbles.

And here, he thinks – he knows, in the precipice of all he has ever known and ever loved, of being complicit in a thousand different sufferings, he bends the knee.

She laughs, and it is not the screams of terrified faces consumed in a tide of fire that he remembers, or even the sound of life being torn from battered and broken bodies across the sea of charred and burning corpses. He remembers the springtime they spent together just across the sea, of their childhood laughter in the face of the overwhelming present.

Riliane brings her hand down to his face, and without hesitation, he brings the hand up to his lips. It burns briefly, the touch of fire and death undone by the very presence of his lips on her skin and in that infinite moment between oblivion and apotheosis he can still see her afterimage through closed eyes.

He looks up at her and sees the sun. He rises to meet her gaze, their fingers intertwined by something more than blood and flesh and _fire._ They are linked, now, more than ever, or perhaps they always were, flashes of flame and terror flash against the surface of his mind and even now he can’t tell how much of that is her and him.

It is for that reason that as she steps ever closer to him, her mirrors her movements exactly, each step and twist of limb and angle perfectly tailored to the both of them. Somewhere along the line he takes off his clothes – or perhaps she does – in the moment where skin brushes against skin against lips against limb there is nothing but them and a bond of fire and blood darkening across the horizon.

And when they stall at the end of their dance – a ritual, he almost hears from the other end of the thread – he is not surprised as he takes her hand in his and waits.

“Kiss me, Alexiel” she says. And he does.

He pushes her against the wall, tired and hungry and the taste of charcoal and burnt flesh and death is still oh so very strong on her lips as he growls at the surprise, at the sensation of dominance, of violence and rage being turned against her.

She does not go quietly, her heat surpassing his by magnitudes burning blazing across the room leaving scorch marks where he pins her to the wall and takes her the heat of her whole, the endless infinity of a god inside her breast waiting to be devoured.

It burns, he would normally note, even for him, even before she would hurt less than this – less than the ache of heat and fire he feels now and yet he knows that to glimpse the entirety of someone and not back away is what love is, truly.

And it _burns_ as he takes her, takes all of her love and despair and hope and even this burning fire as bloody and burning kisses against her nape and neck. She carves scars against his back, her nails piercing into his skin in long arching marks leaving shades of crimson and ash on him.

He takes her in kind as finally enters her fully, Riliane hissing at the sensation of unknown heat as he kisses her again on the neck, and _bites_. This time it is hard enough to draw blood, and she _screams_ with an intensity that makes him see stars in his peripherals and yet he can’t bear to look at the intensity of the star in front of him for long as he nears the climax.

“Riliane, Riliane,” he chants, the sound of her name on his lips coming easily, like praise, like glory.

Even without their bond, by the way she’s glowing and smoking he can tell she’s close too. For a moment he’s surprised that the rest of the room hasn’t spontaneously combusted as he thrusts into her with one final grunt and then –

the moment between fire and flame.

They settle into the bed, their bodies tired and spent from the act as well as all the implications thereof. He almost wants to hate her for it, for dragging his feelings like this in some terrible act of god – and he can’t help but laugh quietly against her for the idea of any god out there being comparable to _her_.

She looks at him oddly before snuggling deeper into his embrace, her hair against his face as they edge ever closer to each other. He can feel her now, the sensation of her fire deepening and flourishing at his touch. He almost wants to cradle it – cradle her – away from all of this, from the acts and deception they strung themselves with – just the two of them journeying on endlessly, each other as company and self and –

“Stay with me,” she whispers. “Please.”

“Anything,” he says, and he would offer up the world to her if she asked, his goddess veiled in fire and flesh, and they both know it.

**Author's Note:**

> never let it be said that ive never written something for my main voca ship now


End file.
